


Fifteenth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 21:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5431520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stretched languidly, cracking his spine, but then his foot made contact with something warm and firm.<br/>He froze.<br/>What the hell...?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifteenth

John remembered he'd once read a book in which the main protagonist had been standing in his bathroom, thinking the word _'yellow'_ , oblivious to its meaning, except that it had vital importance.

This best described John's condition at the moment.

He knew that something grave had happened last night but his brain refused to give him more details.

As he was just surfacing from sleep, he rolled onto his stomach, pulling the pillow over his head to cherish the peace and quiet of the morning just a bit longer. According to his experience, it wouldn't last. Living with Sherlock Holmes had taught him to expect the most exceptional of incidents at the strangest of times.

Sherlock...

Thinking about his flatmate stirred something at the rim of his consciousness but he couldn't get a grip on it, so went back to the task at hand: slowly coming round to start a new day full of adventure and mayhem.

He nuzzled his head deeper into the mattress, sighing contently until it suddenly struck him that the sheets somehow felt … different. They smelled different, too. Not unfamiliar or strange, just different from usual.

Had he accidentally bought a new detergent? Whatever. It was actually quite nice.

John stretched languidly, cracking his spine, but then his foot made contact with something warm and firm.

He froze.

_What the hell...?!_

He brushed his toes tentatively over the unexpected obstacle, feeling for clues: solid, but also soft, long, slender even, hairy...

John's eyes snapped open; he was suddenly wide awake.

Then he heard a growl: deep, guttural, approving.

_Oh.My.God!_

John's body bolted upright on its own account. The sudden onslaught of adrenaline rushing through his veins sharpened his vision and made his nerve endings tingle. He took in his surroundings all at once, neurons firing rapidly: grey Egyptian cotton sheets, the periodic table, green carnation wallpaper, a picture of Edgar Allen Poe – this was obviously Sherlock's room.

He was in Sherlock's bed.

John felt his stomach drop.

_Think, Watson! Figure it out._

There must be an innocent and sensible explanation for this.

He carefully glanced sideways, where he spotted a mop of dark dishevelled curls above a mile of stretched out milky white consulting detective.

NAKED consulting detective.

_Dear god, no!_

Sherlock Holmes – in an indisputable state of undress – murmured a sedated “Good morning, John”, then reached out a proprietary hand towards a very unhinged army doctor, who nearly shrieked in horror before literally jumping out of bed.

After doing so, John instantly discovered two things at once: a bare forty-plus white Caucasian male leaping off a mattress isn't the most elegant display of virile nudity imaginable AND he felt a real pain in the arse.

He desperately tried to cover his lower region with his hands, blushing all over, sputtering: “Sherlock… holy shit… this is… bloody buggering fuck… did we… ?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock grunted. He lifted his head from between the sheets and glared at John, who squirmed in embarrassment under the scrutiny of these piercing eyes – usually so pale, but now dark with mischief and something else John dared not to name. “Now, stop fussing. Come back to bed.” The predatory grin spreading on Sherlock's features was outright devilish.

“You can't be serious...” John screeched.

Sherlock just huffed, partly amused, partly annoyed.

“Don't be stroppy.” His voice was syrupy smooth.

“I'm not… I'm not stroppy. I just… I can’t lie in bed with you while we're both starkers. That's just not on.”

“You weren't that objectionable last night.” Sherlock's voice was rough and low, almost purring.

John involuntarily gave in and sank back onto the bed, head in hands, rocking himself back and forth.

This must be a nightmare. He'll soon wake up.

Then he felt the mattress dip as Sherlock crawled closer.

“Don't!” John spat the word out, raising one hand in repulsion while he kept his back turned to his flatmate.

Of course, Sherlock didn't listen.

“I said: don't!” John barked as he pinned Sherlock down onto the sheets, remembering too late that straddling a naked body while also naked as well resulted in skin-to-skin contact in very peculiar places. I didn't help that he held Sherlock's wrists tightly above his head, thereby exposing his lean body as creamy skin stretched tight over firm muscle.

But instead of dissuading Sherlock, the bastard actually had the nerve to cant his hips slightly upwards, pressing his already half hard cock decisively against John's equally not entirely flaccid groin.

Both men sucked in their breaths, the one on top horrified, the one beneath him quite pleased.

“That's actually more than I was hoping for.” Sherlock gasped. “Captain Watson, is it?” He cast down his eyes cockily while throwing his head back, baring his long delicate throat.

“God, you... “ John panted.

“Yes?” Sherlock sighed.

Their eyes locked.

John abruptly pulled back and scooted away until his arse bumped against the wooden foot-board, covering himself with one of the sheets.

“Bit late for modesty, don't you think?” Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and kept staring at John.

His cheeks were slightly flushed and his hair was a riot. When Sherlock blew one curl from his forehead, John's treacherous cock twitched appreciatively.

“Better safe than sorry,” John retorted primly.

“We were. Safe, I mean. But you also seem to be sorry.” Sherlock kept his voice neutral but raised a poignant eyebrow.

“Could you put something on?”

“Why?”

“Because I keep staring at your dick, which is quite disconcerting.”

“Not for me.”

“Sherlock, for fuck's sake, could you please stop doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Teasing me like a precociously randy teenager trapped in the gorgeous body of a 35-year old asexual self-diagnosed sociopath, who happens to be not only my colleague but also my flatmate and my best friend.”

“What exactly makes you think I'm asexual?”

John shook his head in disbelieve. “I quote: _'Just transport. Married to my work. Not really my area.'_ Remember?”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “You took that serious?” He sounded genuinely incredulous.

“It was delivered quite convincingly.” John retorted affronted, almost sulkily.

Sherlock's smile was inscrutable. “And still, you think I'm gorgeous.”

“Did you listen to me, you idiot? I also said you are my best friend. Best friends do not shag each other. It's not just a case of 'Never fuck the office'. It's a recipe for disaster. If it doesn't work out, I not only lose my income and my home, I'll also lose… you.” John felt exhausted and overwhelmed by the emotional turmoil crashing over him.

“Why shouldn't it work?”

John coughed a bitter laugh. “Serious? Because your temper is mercurial? Because you are the most curious person I've ever encountered? Because you get bored so very easily, even when leading a life most people only watch on telly? Tell me, how long do you think you'll find me interesting enough to bed? How long does it take to do it in all conceivable positions and over or on all horizontal and vertical surfaces available? At your rate, perhaps a month.”

“You don't know that. You can't be sure of that.”

“I won't risk our friendship for just a few weeks of frenzied coupling.”

“That's bollocks, John, and you know that. You talk like an agony aunt. Do you actually remember anything from last night?”

John seriously didn't want to think about it. Brief scenes played before his eyes - blurred images of sweaty pale skin, sharp hipbones, his hands on an unfamiliarly flat chest, quivering long limbs wrapping around him - but he pushed them away, to weak and insecure to deal with the earth-shattering consequences they implied.

“Please, Sherlock, leave it be...”

But his flatmate just talked over him: “We had to go to hospital. You were quite agitated, I don't know why. I just had caught the Shoreditch Strangler – stupid name, really, he garrotted his victims, which is quite a difference but anyway, now is probably not the time for quibble. To cut a long story short, your interference nearly endangered the whole business. It ended with me pinning the man to the ground while you were crouching down, holding your head. He apparently hit you with a pipe. In A&E you were given Diazepam to calm you down, as they feared you were concussed. Then I was allowed to take you home. You were actually quite… clingy.”

John's face flushed hot and nearly crimson. “Spare me the details,” he begged.

“OK, just the bare facts. I was told not to leave you alone. I didn't. When I put you in my bed, which was much more convenient than drag you up the stairs to your room, you kissed me. This let to furious groping, before you urged me – and here _I_ quote – _'to shag you six ways from Sunday'_.”

John cringed.

“I obliged. Afterwards you said you loved me.”

John felt physically sick.

“I'm not gay, Sherlock.”

“I never said you were.”

“I was… spaced out. Off my face. You shouldn't have taken advantage of me.”

“I told you the same. You wouldn't listen.”

“Ha, now you're lying!”

“I never lie.”

“You always do. You actually are a cheating manipulative dickhead.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

“Of course. Do you remember Baskerville?”

“That was for a case.”

John inhaled deeply.

“I'm honestly, really, truly, absolutely not gay, Sherlock.”

“Well, that wasn't a big issue last night.”

They both fell silent. Sherlock watched John expectantly. John watched the judo certificate on the wall above the bed he'd been fucked in by Sherlock Holmes as if it could give him sound advice. It didn't.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled a sheet over his body and started to get up. He sighed

“All right… OK… I'm not… I won't...” Despite being obviously more than just a trifle bemused, Sherlock gracefully swung his long slim legs off the bed and sat up. “Do you want some tea?” His voice was flat.

John noticed that his usually so self-confident friend seemed positively out of his depth and suddenly felt like a cruel and cowardly asshole.

“No, please, wait... I… it's just… this is all so very… strange… and… unexpected.”

“It is indeed.” Sherlock conceded.

“Listen, if we do this, we'll do it properly. You understand me? Go on a date, talk about it, take it slowly.”

Sherlock looked at John, long and hard. “If you say so.”

Then he leaned in and kissed John, deep and passionate.

John couldn't resist, he had to give as good as he got and opened his mouth to allow Sherlock's eager tongue access.

As Sherlock's inquisitive fingers closed around his shaft, John half-heartedly tried doing the sensible thing, like, telling Sherlock to stop but it felt so fucking good and genuinely right, that in the end John couldn't bring himself to deny Sherlock his obvious pleasure. As his lips closed around the head of John's cock, he vaguely thought that this might really go a bit too far but then he remembered that they had fucked already, so a blow job could be regarded as quite vanilla indeed.

“God, I wish I could remember last night.” John gasped and growled with disappointment as Sherlock pulled off and smiled up at him lasciviously.

“I thought you'd never ask. I recorded everything on my phone. We can watch it later, after you've come down my throat. By the way, you are allowed to return the favour, if it pleases you.”

“Why am I not the least surprised?” John smirked. “Come here, then, you delicious piece of work and ruin me for everybody else.”

With that, John grabbed Sherlock's curls and pushed him staunchly down, until he was buried to the hilt in Sherlock's wet, hot mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of the story refers, of course, to this passage:
> 
>  
> 
> _"Yellow," he thought and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed._  
>  _Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. "Yellow," he thought and stomped on to the bedroom._  
>  _He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people's faces. ___  
>  _Something about a new bypass he had just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out._  
>  _God what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror._  
>  _He stuck out his tongue. "Yellow," he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with._  
>  _Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was_  
>  _advancing up his garden path._
> 
>    
> Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy


End file.
